PARTY CART FOR THE PETRI DISH OF HORROR

I understand that this post will make me look like an alcoholic. Quite frankly, after the past two and a half school years I've been through, I should be an alcoholic. All teachers should be unless they've been checked into mental hospitals. March 12, 2020, until June 2022, should go on record as the longest psychological experiment in educational history.

I'm not sure how many of my readers have school-aged children, but here is a brief summary of the experience:

March 2020 to April 2021:  "Turn your cameras on. Turn your cameras off. Turn your microphones off. Turn your microphones on. Hello? I think you're frozen. Google is down. Repeat - GOOGLE IS DOWN!"

April 2021 to June 2021:  "I know it's weird all being back in school. No, keep your masks up. No, don't touch each other. Don't even look at each other. Stay in your seat. Don't touch my mobile cart. Let me spray airy dust so we can all stay alive. Let me wipe that pencil down for you -- wait. Why do you even HAVE a pencil? Don't touch anything. Don't touch anyone. Don't. Just don't."

September 2021 to June 2022: "Be quiet. Pay attention. I said be quiet. Please, pay attention. Stop talking. Stop ... you do understand that I can see you and I can hear you. You no longer have the option of cameras off and microphones off, right? You understand the concept that we are all back in school without masks, right? I can actually see your mouths moving and can actually hear you chatting."

So, is it any wonder at all that I take my Total Wine gift certificates and spend over an hour perusing the store the very first day after school officially ends? I even indulge in a wine tasting before noon. 

These are the front lines, people. We may not be in the hospitals pulling ICU duty, but make no mistake -- teachers were and are swimming in the Petri Dish of Horror. Every single educator not only earned but deserved whatever indulgence they care to enact.

So, yes, I treat myself to craft beer I've wanted to try, and small bottles of prosecco and champagne, and a large bottle of sangria, and some small boxes of wine to take to a friend's pool, and some mini-wines for travel. This is no longer my Survival Cart; this is my Party Cart.

After two-plus years in the Petri Dish of Horror, I've earned this. We all have. Salud.

NO LIFE -- FOR NOW

 It's nearly the end of the school year. Don't be jealous -- teachers may get a few weeks off in the summer, but, contrary to popular misconception, we do NOT get paid for summers (nor holidays, nor spring breaks, nor snow days). In my district, I get paid for 184 days, and, believe me, the district will get those 184 days if it kills me and the The Powers That Be in the process.

The very last thing that I want to be doing next Wednesday afternoon (although I probably will be) is packing up my room. This year it's exceptionally painful because I am packing up essentially from 2020 when we shut down suddenly in March due to Covid, and 2021 when I was on a rolling cart all year. 

So, my partner-in-crime and I decide to stay late on Friday to get some of this crap finished. Well, I should say that I decide to stay and so does she, independently of each other. When we discover the other working away, we make a pact not to stay too late. This way we can keep the other one honest about leaving before it gets dark out.

I get a lot done. I reorganize and repack two entire closets, partially work through a third closet, and rearrange desks. I still have data to enter, novels to pack up, paperwork to file, grades to finish and submit, and a day and a half to plan for (sans technology for the kiddos). However, I am lightyears ahead on the "next week" front for time-management.

We stay for two hours. Some of it is just chatting, but mostly we are both hard at work in classrooms one next to the other in the same wing. Finally, 5:30 creeps up on us, and we convince ourselves to stop (we still have hours to go) and leave for the weekend. 

As we walk out, it's impossible not to notice that we are the only ones here. Not just amongst teachers, but including administration, district personnel, and, most unnerving, the janitorial staff. We are the very last people in the parking lot out back, or any parking lot, for that matter. 

It's creepy and it's sad.

I certainly hope I'm not pulling a repeat performance next week as the year winds down, but, if I know me, I probably will. Feel free to draw chalk lines around my car like some CSI drama, letting me know my post-school life is officially dead for a while.

DISCO CAR WASH

Pollen.

It's ruining my life right now. Oh, it is much better than worm poop, but it's running a close second where my car is concerned. New Englanders are always happy around mid-April when we assume, sometimes incorrectly, that Salt Season has passed. 

But now -- the Green Curse from Hell.

I'm constantly sneezing, coughing, blowing my nose, wiping my water eyes. I have to sweep and resweep the porch over and over again, wiping the green and yellow and black dust off the furniture. 

The car, though. My poor car.

I spend an entire weekend without once moving my car. When I leave for work on Monday morning, the pollen residue is so thick that I can't see out of the front or back windshields. Normally, I am able to rid the dusty crap with a flick of the wiper blades. Not so this time. This time it is a muddy, disgusting, pasted-on mess. My only choice is to suffer through the embarrassment in the staff parking lot then head to the car wash down the street after school.

I usually avoid this car wash because the dryers don't work, so my car ends up with mottled spots, but I figure mottled spots are better than pollen. I notice, however, as I pull up to the automated gates (yes, two gates) that this car wash has been completely redone. 

I pull up to the gate where a human points slightly to the right (I am darn accurate at hitting the skids) then points to the flashing sign that says in lights and in a booming voice, "PUT YOUR CAR IN NUETRAL!" As my car rolls forward, I am suddenly assaulted with not only a sudsy car but disco lights through the watery haze.

At the car wash! Working at the car wash . . . Working at the car wash . . . yeah, yeah, yeah!

My gawd. It's like the 1970s all over again. There is a veritable ROY G BIV of excitement going on in here. I start having disco flashbacks. Ah, come on. Even those of us who were hardcore metalheads hit a disco a few times for the fun of it. Heck, there was a place in New Hampshire that had all four things a person could enjoy all in the same building: The disco room (where unusually old and hairy men hung out for some odd reason), the rock room (lots of drunk and high eighteen-year-olds), the country room (for those of us who could line dance -- not me because I'm uncoordinated), and the acoustic room if you actually wanted to hold a conversation.

So, here I am, going through the car wash, suddenly reliving my not-so-glorious glory days, all in the span of sixty seconds. I am please to see dryers have also been installed, albeit flashing and dinging like I'm being spit out of some giant watery pinball machine.

If you need the Jimi Hendrix experience with a little White Rabbit thrown in, I know a great place where you can do so without any lingering after-effects. Bonus -- your car gets washed at the same time!

SOUR SUMMER

I love a good sour beer. That being said, it's not always easy to get a GOOD sour beer. 

I know, I know. You dang purists. You prefer your IPAs and good old American beers that put hair on your chest. I like some of those, too. After all, Sam Adams grew up in my neck of the woods, and I am remarkably loyal to his namesake brews, regardless of the fact that Paul Revere graces the labels.

But nothing -- not a dang thing in the beer world -- beats a decent sour ale.

I think this summer I shall make it my quest to sample as many sour ales as I can. Looking for recommendations all over New England and perhaps beyond of new or established breweries featuring good sour beers. 

While I'm at it, I do love blood orange beer, as well. They seem few and far between at local taverns, so help me out with ideas on brewers featuring those, as well. Maybe even . . . a blood orange sour beer. I know you're out there -- I've seen images of cans and bottles online.

Summer's coming and I going to make it as sour as I can.